


fourth of july

by AliuIce0814



Series: sweet little headache [4]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Birthday, Blow Jobs, Catholic Bucky Barnes, Catholic School, Catholic Steve Rogers, Gay New York in the 1940s, Gene Whelan (from previous stories in this series), Irish Sarah Rogers, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Public Blow Jobs, Roman Catholicism, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 08:17:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12907911
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliuIce0814/pseuds/AliuIce0814
Summary: All of Steve's best and worst birthdays have somehow featured Bucky Barnes.





	fourth of july

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleBird20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBird20/gifts).



> Originally written in March 2015 for my wife's birthday--before we were married! Wild. If there are issues, let me know. 
> 
> Gene, who has showed up in this series before, shows up again! I love him. 
> 
> TW for referenced child abuse.

Part I: 1918

            Sarah Rogers is a good Catholic Irishwoman. When the neighbor woman who delivers her son says her baby won’t live through the night, Sarah tells her: “Go to Hell.”

            She strips off her shirt and presses the baby to her bare skin, praying for her body heat to seep into his blue-tinged skin. God, he’s so cold, freezing in spite of the summer heat. His concave chest heaves, spindly legs kicking weakly. Sarah wraps all of her blankets around the two of them, ignoring the way sweat drips down her back.

           “Here now,” the midwife says, reaching out toward the baby. Sarah jerks back, cupping a protective hand around the back of her baby’s head. The midwife scowls. “Here now, Sarah, this is too hard on you. Let me have him.”

            “No.” The baby squirms. Even though her muscles are shaking, Sarah pulls herself up to her full height. “Leave.”

             “I’m not going to leave you with a dead baby.”

            “I’m a nurse. I know what a dead baby looks like. I’ve held them. He is alive.” The baby squirms again, frozen fingers scrabbling against Sarah’s skin.  “This is my apartment and my son, and I’m telling you to leave. Go.”

                The midwife sighs. “You’re sick, love. He’s blue all over. You can’t keep him like this.” When she reaches toward the baby again, Sarah slaps her hand away. The midwife’s not listening to her because she’s small and shaking and ill and a widow, but if Sarah were home in Ireland—oh, she’d have her brother’s old rifle in her hands right now, and she’d have the muzzle pointed straight at this woman’s heart. Sarah’s baby is alive. He’s hers. No one can take him, not even this daft bitch who actually grabs Sarah’s wrists to try to pry the baby out of her grip. Her fingers pinch Sarah’s skin.

                 Sarah’s got no husband to stand up for her, no gun to warn this woman off. All she’s got is her arms around this baby and her voice. So she does what she can. She screams.

                Sarah’s sure the midwife’s heard a hundred women scream before. Sarah herself hears plenty of people scream every day at the hospital, noises of pain and grief. But she doubts the midwife’s ever been screamed at like this, cursed at in both English and Gaelic, damned to Hell in every possible way Sarah knows to say it. Sarah screams until she tastes blood. She’s dizzy from screaming when the midwife leaves, door slamming behind her. Sarah spits after her. The baby lets out the faintest of whimpers.

            Somewhere, buried in a drawer full of carefully pressed men’s shirts, is Joseph’s rosary. Sarah shifts in her blankets, trying to get her shaking feet to touch the floor so she can reach the dresser. She needs the comfort of the smooth red beads. She needs the way the rosary still smells like Joseph. Four months he’d been gone before he died, two months now since mustard gas turned his lungs to froth. Sarah’s not had enough time to grieve, not nearly enough time to understand what it’ll mean to raise this spindly little boy on her own. Sarah needs Joseph here. God, does she need him.

            Her knees shake violently when she tries to stand. She collapses back onto the bed before she can fall. She can’t risk moving, she realizes, heart pounding. Not with her baby in her arms. The first sob stumbles out of her mouth unexpectedly. All of a sudden, Sarah’s curled around her baby, crying into his downy hair. This close to him, she can hear that every single one of his inhales is a whine.

           Someone pounds on Sarah’s door. She can’t move to open it, but it must be open already because a moment later, Mary Barnes from across the hall is standing at the foot of Sarah’s bed. She’s even younger than Sarah, maybe seventeen, and five months pregnant. Sarah passes her in the hallway and pities her for the bruises on her cheeks and around her wrists, but she can’t remember that she’s ever had a full conversation with her. Mary’s trembling a little when she sits down beside Sarah. “I heard you screaming. I thought you were being hurt or—oh.” Mary’s eyes go wide when she sees the bundle in Sarah’s arms. Sarah runs her fingers through her son’s hair. There’s a little more color in his cheeks now, or maybe she’s just imagining things she wants to see. “Is he…what’s the matter with him?”

           “I was trying to get Joseph’s rosary,” Sarah says, knowing it explains nothing. “It’s in the dresser, but my legs won’t work.”

            “I’ll get it,” Mary says immediately. She rummages through the drawer, coming back with the familiar red beads in her hand. Sarah shifts her baby to one arm so she can take the rosary. Mary’s skin feels like fire beneath her fingers. Mary casts a sideways look at the baby’s squished, miserable face. “Should I get Father Callaghan?”

           “No!” Sarah’s heart jumps to her throat. “He doesn’t need anointing. He isn’t dying, he was just a little early. He’s fine. He’ll be all right.”

            “All right,” Mary says quickly. Sarah can barely hear her over the pounding in her ears. She inhales sharply when her baby kicks his legs. She tells herself she has to be imagining that his motions are getting a little stronger. “Does he have a name?”

            The baby doesn’t, but one slips out of Sarah’s mouth before she even thinks about it. “Steven Grant.” For her brother, her ridiculous, wild, brave brother who didn’t know when to stop pointing his rifle at the English. If her baby’s half as stubborn as Stevie ever was, surely he’ll survive the night. The baby hiccups when she says the name. Sarah blinks hard and kisses his wrinkled forehead. “Ah, Stevie.”

            “Stevie.” Mary’s voice is hushed and reverent. Sarah tenses when she reaches for Steve, but Mary only brushes her fingertips over Steve’s soft blond hair. “You’ll have to play with my baby when he comes. You can be the best of friends.”

            She sounds so wistful, so young, that Sarah nods. “Of course they will be,” she says, voice cracking. “They’ll get into a world of trouble.” She runs her finger over Steve’s fragile knuckles. Her breath catches in her throat when he grabs on tight. She fumbles for Joseph’s rosary, heart pounding.

            The moment she starts praying, Mary does too, voice hushed as if they’re actually in church. “ _Ave Maria, gratia plena_....”

            “…the Lord is with thee,” Sarah says, voice cracking. “Blessed art Thou among women, and blest is the—”

            Steve whines. The sound echoes through the room. When Sarah looks down at him, his eyes are just barely open, squinting up at her. Sarah stares at his furrowed brow for a breathless second before she whispers, “Oh, Mary, please, he’s only a little boy, I know you have a little boy too. Oh, Mary, I know you lost your Joseph. Well, I lost my Joseph, too. All I have of him is this boy. Oh, Mary, please, Mother of God, I know I’ve done wrong but—” One of Mary’s hands comes to rest on Sarah’s shoulder. The baby’s squeaking grows louder. He kicks out again, stronger.

           A bang like thunder rattles the window. Sarah launches upright. Mary screams and buries her face in her hands. Baby Steve stiffens in Sarah’s arms and lets out an ear-piercing shriek.

           “Jesus God,” Mary says, suddenly furious, “those damn fireworks.”

            Sarah presses her mouth against Steve’s head. She can’t tell if she’s laughing or crying. “Oh, darling,” she says. Steve draws in a breath and lets out another yell.

#

Part II: 1922

           Bucky’s scared of firecrackers. He won’t tell anybody because boys aren’t supposed to be scared of anything, especially big almost-four-year-olds like him. He’s too old for a lot of things like diapers and bottles and cuddles from Dad. He knows he’s too big to be scared, especially of silly things like flash-bangs. So he doesn’t say anything about the way his heart thumps wildly in his chest as the pop-pop-pops rattle outside his window on the morning of Fourth of July. He keeps totally silent as he follows Mom across the hall to Steve’s apartment.

            Anyway, Steve’d probably laugh at him if Bucky acted scared of anything. Stevie Rogers is Bucky’s best friend from across the hall. He’s four whole years old today, but even when he was three, he was never scared of anything. He’s smaller than Bucky, all skinny like a skeleton because his body’s too sick, but he acts big and loud. One time, when Steve’s mom worked late, he stayed over at Bucky’s place. Dad was throwing Mom’s dishes on the floor to make her cry like usual. Bucky crawled under the kitchen table with his hands over his ears like usual. When he reached back to pull Steve under the table with him, Steve pulled his hand away and jumped at Dad. Steve bit his arm! He dug his teeth in and wouldn’t let go no matter how hard Dad swung him around. By the time Mom got him to let go, Dad’s arm was bleeding as much as Steve’s nose was. Mom cleaned both of them up and made everybody swear not to tell Steve’s mom. Bucky’s learned to be good at not telling.

            Today he’s not supposed to tell Steve what his present is until he opens it. The present is pretty drawing paper in a notebook all wrapped in butcher paper. Steve’s just as good at drawing as he is at being tough. The grown-ups always know what his pictures are supposed to be. Bucky’s mom keeps telling Bucky all his dogs look like horses. Bucky’s jealous, but not throw-a-fit jealous. Just the kind of jealous that means he leans up against Stevie’s shoulder all the time just to watch him draw.

            As soon as Bucky and his mom go inside Steve’s apartment, Steve tries to tackle him. Bucky doesn’t fall over. Mostly it just hurts because Steve’s all bony. Bucky grins and shoves him back. Steve falls on his butt. Bucky laughs. Steve makes a face. Bucky’s chest feels all warm when Steve sticks out his tongue.

            “All right, now, boys,” Steve’s mom calls. Her voice rises up and down in funny places. Mom says that’s because she came over the ocean in a boat, and the waves rocked her up and down. Bucky likes that sound because it reminds him of Steve. “Come sit down. Or are you not wanting any of this cake I’ve made for you?”

            “Cake!” Bucky shrieks. Steve scrambles to his feet. Bucky’s taller and faster than he is, so he beats him to the table, but Mom grabs him by the shoulder and makes him wait until Steve sits down in a special chair decorated with red, white, and blue ribbons. Only then does Steve’s mom start cutting pieces of chocolate cake. There’s not a lot of cake there, Bucky notices. His stomach growls. He tries his best to tug out of Mom’s grip. “I want cake.”

            “Only one slice,” she warns before she lets him go. Bucky reaches eagerly for the plate Steve’s mom hands him. She’s slow in giving it to him, as if she thinks he’s going to drop it. No way. He’s not a baby. He’s almost four. He can hold a plate. He shifts it to one hand so he can pick off some of the creamy frosting—

            _Bang._

            Bucky’s plate clatters to the floor, cake-side-down. Above his head, Mom gasps, but he can barely hear her over the ringing in his ears and the _pop-pop-pop_ rattling the window. Bucky bursts into tears. He can’t breathe right, his nose is all snotty, and he won’t get more cake because cake is special and he wasted his whole first piece and he wants the noise to stop. “Bucky,” Mom says. Bucky howls. His face burns.

           “Hey. Hey, Bucky!” Steve slides out of his special birthday chair. One of the red ribbons sticks to his shirt as he walks over to Bucky. Bucky knuckles his eyes furiously, choking on a sob. Now Steve knows he’s a big baby, and he’s going to laugh at him forever.

           Bucky’s so surprised when Steve wraps a spindly arm around his shoulders that he flinches. Steve pulls him into a hug, all gentle in a way Bucky didn’t know he could be. “It’s okay,” Steve says, patting Bucky’s back. Bucky heaves in some air and cries harder. “It’s okay, Bucky. Don’t worry. You can share my piece of cake.”

           Bucky heaves in more air and coughs. “Really?” he says warily, squinting at Steve through blurry eyes.

           Steve nods. “Sure thing! You’re my friend.”

           “Oh,” Steve’s mom says. “Oh, my sweet boy.”

           “What do you say?” Bucky’s mom says as Steve leads Bucky to the special birthday chair. Steve climbs onto it, scooting over far enough for Bucky to sit beside him. As soon as he’s on the chair, Bucky burrows close. He grabs a handful of the cake Steve offers him and shoves it in his mouth.

            “Thank you,” Bucky mumbles around his mouthful of chocolate frosting. Steve grins. When more firecrackers start popping, Bucky shivers. Steve wraps an arm around his shoulders and doesn’t let go, even once the cake is all gone and Bucky’s not shaking anymore.

             When Steve unwraps his notebook, he gets so excited that he actually kisses Bucky’s cheek. Bucky’s face burns like it does when he’s about to cry, except this time it feels good. He doesn’t understand why his mom’s forehead gets worried wrinkles.

#

Part III: 1932

              Sister Theresa had to step out of the eighth grade Catechism classroom to box Jack Casey’s ears, so all the other kids are going nuts. Nobody wants to be stuck inside on the Fourth of July, even if it is a Sunday. The girls are huddled in one corner, passing Evelyn Thompson’s lipstick around, while Jack Casey’s gang of friends plots their revenge against Sister T. Bucky keeps stealing Steve’s pencils and throwing them at the ceiling to get them stuck there. When he snitches the fourth one, Steve turns around and whacks his head with his notebook. “Would ya knock it off, jerk?”

             Bucky gives him a shit-eating grin. “Whatever you say, birthday boy.” Steve barely stops himself from flipping him off. He is in church, after all.

             Josie Casey looks over from the huddle of girls. “Oh, is it your birthday, Steve?”

            “Happy birthday, Steve!” Evelyn calls. Her lips are the deepest shade of red Steve’s ever seen. She looks about seventeen, especially since she somehow grew breasts between the end of school a month ago and class today. Steve can feel his face heating up. He ducks his head and stares at his half-finished sketch of Sister T screaming at Jack. “Aw, Stevie, don’t hide.”

            “Yeah, Stevie, don’t hide.” Bucky pulls Steve into a headlock. “Hey, ladies.” His voice hasn’t dropped yet like Steve’s did last year, but somehow he drawls just like a movie star. All the girls love Bucky for it. Mostly it just drives Steve nuts. When he scowls and tries to shove Bucky away, Bucky holds on tighter. “Come wish my pal here a happy fourteenth birthday.”

            “Goddammit, Bucky,” Steve gasps, squirming.

            Bucky laughs right in his ear. “Watch your mouth in church, Rogers.”

            “Get off.” Steve digs his elbow into the soft spot just below Bucky’s ribs. That trick always works. Sure enough, Bucky gasps and lets go, swearing under his breath. “Now who’s gonna get his mouth washed out?” Steve asks. He shoves his hair out of his eyes and goes back to contemplating his sketch. That’s when he feels eyes watching him, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. Slowly, Steve looks up to find every single eighth grade girl smiling down at him. All of them are done up with that dark red lipstick. Steve’s stomach turns itself inside out. His blush creeps its way down his neck.

            “Hi, Stevie,” Evelyn says, batting her eyelashes.

            Steve swallows hard. “Uh, hi.” He mentally kicks himself as soon as he says it. God, he sounds like an idiot. He knows he does. Bucky’s sure snickering behind him. Asshole. Just because he’s kissed a girl before doesn’t mean he needs to be an asshole right now. Steve reaches back without looking and smacks his arm a couple times. That only makes Bucky laugh harder.

            Evelyn leans in real close. Steve can feel her eyelashes fluttering against his cheek. He can’t get himself to swallow. “Happy birthday,” she says. Then her lips are pressing against his cheek. Steve squeezes his eyes shut, too stunned to remember to breathe. As soon as Evelyn pulls back, giggling, Steve cracks open his eyelids—only to see Josie Casey coming in close. He closes his eyes again as quick as he can. Suddenly, girls’ mouths are all over his face. Steve doesn’t think he’s even talked to most of them since they were about six. They’re all so warm and right there all of a sudden, Steve can’t even think. Their lips are waxy against his skin. Some of them even smell sweet like perfume.

            The lips leave his face. Steve finally remembers to breathe. When he inhales, his ribs pop. He gets ready to open his eyes, turn around, and punch Bucky in his smug laughing face. That’s when a warm weight lands on Steve’s lap. Bucky stops laughing abruptly. When Steve’s eyes snap open, Evelyn’s sitting on his lap, leaning in close with half-lidded eyes. Steve’s muscles seize up as she comes closer and closer and closer. Then her lips are smashed against Steve’s lips. Her mouth’s warm and waxy and kind of squishy. Steve can’t breathe. He’s pretty sure his entire body is bright red. Is this how Bucky feels with all those girls all the time? Is this how Steve’s supposed to feel about kissing a dame?

            Just as fast as she dropped onto Steve’s lap, Evelyn’s on her feet and halfway across the room. All of the girls follow her, shrieking and giggling. Jack Casey’s friends wolf-whistle. “Nice one, Rogers!” they call. Steve runs his tongue over his lips, tasting the lipstick Evelyn left behind. Then he lets his head bang onto his desk and puts his arms over his head.

            It’s not a moment too soon. The door clangs open, and Sister T comes sweeping in, screaming for everyone to sit down. “Girls, go wash your faces now. I can’t believe you, wearing that trash in church. Barnes, get those pencils out of the ceiling this instant! And what on earth have you done to Steven?”

            Steve bites his lip to keep from laughing at Sister T blaming Bucky for everything. Good. Bucky deserves the blame, the jerk. It’s his fault that Steve’s face is a mess of red splotches. Ma’s going to kill him if he comes home like this.

            “His stomach hurts,” Bucky says. Usually, when he’s lying, his voice is smooth and easy. Right now, though, it’s tight as if he’s upset about something. Steve nearly lifts his head to frown at him before he remembers he needs to keep his lipsticked face hidden.

            “Oh, Steven,” Sister T says, voice suddenly gentle. Steve hates that she thinks he’s weak, but at least he’s getting out of trouble. “You’ll walk him home, won’t you, James?”

            “Always do,” Bucky mutters. Steve frowns at the wood of the desk. As he lies there in the dark, breath fogging up the desk, he wonders what the heck is wrong with Bucky.

            Steve waits until everybody else empties out of the church classroom before he stands. Bucky’s standing on his desk, yanking Steve’s pencils out of the ceiling. He drops them so hard that the tips snap. “Stop breaking my stuff,” Steve says, catching the last pencil before Bucky can wreck it, too. “How bad’s my face?”

            “Awful,” Bucky says as he jumps to the floor. He’s not looking at Steve. “Ugliest mug I’ve ever seen.”

            Steve snorts. “Shut up. This is your fault, siccing all those girls on me.” His face burns just thinking about it. When he scrubs at his cheeks, his hands come away stained red. Steve groans. “Ma’s going to kill me.”

            Bucky pulls his handkerchief out of his pocket and spits on it. “C’mere.” Before Steve has the chance to run, Bucky grabs him by the back of his neck and starts scrubbing at his face with spit-wet fabric. Steve grimaces and tries to squirm away, but Bucky tightens his grip until his fingers are digging into Steve’s skin. “Can’t go out in the hall like this. Father Callaghan’ll see, and then he’ll never let you get Confirmed.” It’s the kind of ridiculous thing Bucky says when he’s teasing, but his voice is flat. He scrubs Steve’s lips until his mouth feels raw.

            Steve ducks out of the way, lips tingling. “Stoppit,” he says, rubbing his mouth on his hand. At least his hand comes away clean this time. “There. Do I look decent now?”

            Bucky’s quiet, folding up his handkerchief and shoving it back in his pocket. The fabric’s stained red. Steve’s stomach twists uncomfortably. What’s Bucky mad at him for? He’s the one who asked those girls to wish Steve a happy birthday. What’s he jealous for?

            But Steve must be wrong about Bucky being jealous. When Bucky finally looks up at Steve, he’s smirking just like the cocky asshole he always is. “You’re welcome for your present, Rogers.”

            Steve shoves him against the desk. Outside, firecrackers rattle. “Thanks, jerk.”

            Bucky slings an arm around Steve’s shoulders. “Sure thing, punk.”

#

Part IV: 1942

            Bucky knows something’s wrong the second he sees Gene. His shoulder muscles are locked up tight, his motions jerky as he drags crates off of the hook and lets them slam to the ground. When Bucky falls into line beside him, he catches the next crate before Gene can let it fall. “Easy,” he says, carefully lowering it so its contents don’t shatter. Munitions are surprisingly fragile.

            Gene pauses mid-motion, hands resting on the hook above his head. Normally, Bucky would take the opportunity to admire the lines of hard muscle Gene’s showing off through his sweat-soaked shirt. Now, he’s more focused on the sharp way Gene exhales. “They called my number,” he says lowly. “Ship out next week.”

            Bucky’s chest seizes up. “Fuck.”

            “Yup. Going to Europe to shoot the shit out of Hitler.” Gene lets go of the hook. It rattles back along the line to get the next crate. “You’re next.”

            “No, I’m not,” Bucky says. He knows it’s a lie. He’s already been to basic, learned all the ways to kill somebody with a bayonet or a bullet or a knife. They picked him out specifically for his sharpshooting. If—when—he ships out, he’ll be a sergeant.

            “They’re not gonna let you stay just because you’re queer for some boy.” Gene keeps his voice down, but Bucky still knocks shoulders with him to get him to shut up. The hook rattles back along the line, chains creaking with the weight of the crate. Gene grunts as he hands the box down to Bucky. “And if they let you go ‘cause they find out you’re queer for some boy, they’re gonna arrest you.”

            Bucky pounds the top of the crate with his fist to make sure the lid’s on tight. Splinters dig into the meat of his fist. He shoves the crate toward the dame next to him a little harder than necessary. He hates the pitying look she gives him. There are so many dames working here now, more than guys, even, because all the guys are busy getting shot at. It’s becoming the ladies’ jobs to build the weapons the men are using to get shot. Bucky gets it, gets that somebody needs to work, but all the women working at the docks are just another reminder of how close Bucky is to getting fucked over for good.

            “Come to the hotel,” Gene says suddenly. When Bucky looks over at him, he’s wiping black oil on his jeans. “For the Fourth. One last party with the old crowd.”

            Bucky frowns. “The Fourth’s Steve’s birthday. I can’t just—”

            “Bring him. Whatever it takes. Come on, Barnes. When was the last time I asked you for anything?” Gene’s voice cracks. Bucky’s never heard that sound out of him before, not even when Bucky’s sucked his cock. The noises Gene makes then are low and throaty. This break in his voice is higher. Scared, Bucky realizes, that’s what Gene is. Scared shitless. He digs his blunt fingernails into his palms.

            “Sure I’ll come,” Bucky says. “Don’t worry about it.” The hook rattles along. “We’ll both come.”

…

            “Want to go to the hotel for your birthday?”

            Steve pauses in the middle of folding the newspaper and raises an eyebrow at Bucky. “Why?”

            Bucky shrugs. He can’t quite bring himself to be honest with Steve. Gene’s name keeps getting stuck in his throat. “Y’know, I was just thinking, they have that swimming pool, we could watch the fireworks from the balcony.”

            Steve snorts. “We could watch the fireworks from our window if you actually liked fireworks.”

            “Hey, just because I was scared when I was three—”

            “—and thirteen, and twenty-three—”

            “Shove it up your ass, punk.” Bucky grabs the paper and smacks Steve in the head with it. Steve ducks away, laughing. The bright sound’s so rare anymore that hearing it makes Bucky’s heart clench up. He hits Steve again so Steve can’t see the pained face he’s sure he’s making. “You’re the one who used to work there. I figured there’d be things you’d want to see. Y’know, find out if that couple you know still hangs around there or something.”

             Steve’s smile slides off his face. “They moved to Paris in ’36.”

            Which means they’re under Vichy control if they’re alive at all. Shit, Bucky thinks. Even though he didn’t know—how could he’ve known? Steve never told him—his face prickles with shame. “Steve.”

            “It’s fine,” Steve says flatly. He tugs the paper out of Bucky’s hands and smoothes the creases. Thin lines appear on his forehead.

            Words crowd in Bucky’s throat until he finally talks, desperate to explain why he’s making an ass of himself. “Gene’s shipping out. Next week. He wants us to come to the hotel on the Fourth.”

            Steve’s frown lines deepen. “Gene?” he says. His voice goes up at the end, just a little, the way it always does when he gets jealous.

            “Yeah. He invited you, too.”

            “Oh. He did?”

            Steve’s voice is flat. His jaw muscles tighten up the way they always do when he’s jealous. Bucky scowls. “Yeah. He did. He’s not trying anything with me, Steve.”

            “Sure.” Steve drops the paper on the table. All of the sections scatter out of it. “We had plans, Buck.”

            Bucky’s stomach coils tight. He can feel a flush creeping up the back of his neck. “We can still have plans. You can fuck me wherever you want. You know that.”

            “It’s not about that,” Steve snaps.

            “Even if he hadn’t invited you, I’d go!” Bucky’s shouting before he knows it. Steve jolts to his feet, eyes flashing. Bucky shoves his hands in his pockets and swallows hard, trying to calm down. He doesn’t want to fight with Steve. He just wants him to listen for once. He needs him to understand. “Listen, before I knew you how you felt about me, Gene was what I had. Okay? Not like you, he’s nothing like you—” Steve wants to go to war, not like Gene who’s actually got enough brains in his head to be terrified— “I wasn’t in love with him, Jesus, but he was around, okay? Without him I wouldn’t have had anybody.” Bucky’s voice shakes. “He’s going to get himself killed.” Jesus God, he doesn’t want it to be true, but it is.

            Steve stares at him, jaw working, hands clenching. Bucky wonders a little sickly if this is going to turn into an actual fight. Then Steve says, roughly, “Come here.”  

           Bucky doesn’t even have a chance to respond before Steve grabs his hand and tugs him around the side of the table. Bucky tries to protest when Steve hauls him onto his lap—“No, Rogers, Jesus, I’m gonna break you, for God’s sake, Steve”—but Steve’s got such a tight hold on him, and Bucky’s so tired of fighting. He just folds in on himself, folds against Steve. The chair groans beneath their weight. Wouldn’t it be funny if the legs gave out? Bucky hiccups at the thought. He presses his face against Steve’s neck and heaves in a breath, catching the smell of soap and paint and Bucky’s own cologne.

            One of Steve’s hands presses flat against Bucky’s back. The other comes up to cup his head. The feeling of Steve’s long fingers splayed against him just about kills Bucky. When his number gets called up, he won’t feel that touch for months. What if getting shot at makes him forget what it’s like to be held by Steve? “Hey,” Steve says, all soft, so different from how stern he was just a minute ago. “Okay, Buck. It’s okay. What’re you thinking?”

            Bucky closes his eyes and shakes his head. Steve’s shoulder is warm beneath his mouth. He can’t admit how scared he is, not to Steve. Steve doesn’t, can’t, understand why Bucky doesn’t want to fight. Hell, Bucky can’t even tell him he was drafted. He burned his draft letter the minute it came. When Steve came home from work that night, Bucky told him he’d enlisted instead. The way Steve’s whole face had lit up with pride had been worth it. The way Steve’d made love to him that night, fucking him into the mattress and covering every inch of his neck and chest with hickeys, had been worth it. Steve hates cowards almost as much as he hates bullies. Bucky’s breath comes in gasps when he thinks of Steve hating him.

            Steve grabs a fistful of Bucky’s shirt. “Okay,” he says, voice quiet but firm. “We’ll go. But you have to promise me something.”

            Bucky pushes away from Steve just enough so he can see his face. There’s a glint in Steve’s blue eyes that means trouble. Bucky sighs. “What?”

            “Watch those damn fireworks with me, Barnes.”

            Bucky hits Steve’s shoulder as hard as he can. Steve just grins.

 

            Fourth of July dawns hot and sticky. Steve and Bucky spend most of the daylight hours in bed, fucking slow and as quiet as they can. Which isn’t very quiet—Bucky has purple bite marks on his hand where he dug his teeth in to muffle his moans. Steve knows just how to suck at his chest to drive him insane.

            Even though the sun’s starting to set as they walk to the hotel, the city’s still muggy. Bucky’s glad he doused himself in cologne because he’s damn sure he’s already sweated through his shirt. Despite his asthma, Steve’s swimming in Bucky’s cologne, too. Maybe it’s to cover up any sweat, but Bucky’s privately convinced that Steve’s wearing it to remind everyone of who he belongs with. Bucky keeps knocking shoulders with him to remind him.

            The hotel’s insane when Steve and Bucky get there. The music spills out onto the street, loud and thumping. Bucky’s surprised the police aren’t all over the place. Then again, the old bunch of cops are all in Europe now, or Japan, fighting people who might actually be evil instead of harassing a bunch of queers. Or maybe everyone’s just given up caring about anything. The world’s going to hell anyway. The fairies sure are ballsy tonight, strutting into the hotel with their dresses and heels already on. One of them blows a kiss at Bucky when he holds the door for him. Steve scowls and stands as close to Bucky as he can without being on top of him.

            “Jealous?” Bucky murmurs in his ear as they go inside. When Steve doesn’t respond right away, Bucky’s worried that the roar of the crowd that’s packed in the lobby has swallowed his words. Then one of Steve’s hands worms its way into Bucky’s back pocket and squeezes. Steve moves away just as quickly as he’s touched Bucky, but Bucky still smirks at him.

Steve’s cheeks are all pink and gorgeous. “Is Gene rich?” he asks even though he knows he isn’t. He’s met Gene before, lots of times. Honestly, Bucky thought they’d gotten along pretty well for being two guys who’d both fucked him. Steve eyes the mirrored ball hanging from the ceiling, the band playing at full blast. Steve worked here for years. He has to know this is what this place is always like. Sure enough, the corner of Steve’s mouth curls up. “It looks like Gatsby came through here.”

            “You know I didn’t read that book.”

            “Course I know. You fell asleep on me when I tried reading it to you, you big dummy.”

            Bucky shrugs, scanning the crowd for a familiar face. “There’s no accounting for taste. Hey, Gene!” He puts up his arm and waves.

It takes Gene a minute to see him. When he does, he shoulders his way through the crowd, grinning. He’s already gone, eyes bloodshot. His tie’s undone, and his neck’s smeared with lipstick. He pulls Bucky into a hug when he gets to him, pounding his back. “You made it! I was wondering.”

            “Yeah, well, this punk was slowing me down.” Bucky wraps an arm around Steve’s neck and screws up his hair. Steve shoves him away, eyes narrowed. Bucky widens his eyes, pouting the best he can. “Come on, doll, don’t be like that.”

            “Jerk,” Steve grumbles. “Hey, Gene.”

            Steve holds out his hand to shake, but Gene pulls him into a hug instead. Gene’s a bear of a guy, bigger and more muscular than Bucky by far. He swallows Steve up. From what little Bucky can see of Steve’s face, mashed up against Gene’s chest, Steve’s affronted by this. “You’re gonna take care of Barnes, right?” Gene says, still clinging to Steve. “You’re gonna—you’re gonna watch ‘im, right? He’s a good guy.”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Steve says. At least that what Bucky thinks he says. He can’t really tell. He’s trying not to laugh.

            Gene’s next words kill his laughter. “He really likes you, y’know? Kid really cares ‘bout you. Been telling me ‘bout you for years’n’years.” The music’s loud, the crowd’s noisy, but Gene’s so drunk that he’s practically yelling. “Don’t you break his heart. Bucky Barnes is a good guy. Don’t you break his heart.”

            Bucky’s face burns red. He glances around, trying to see if the cops or—worse—the military police are hanging around. He doesn’t see anybody, but there’s always plainclothes cops. It’s not so much himself he’s worried about, he’ll be fine, but Steve—“Come on, Gene,” Bucky says, grabbing Gene’s shoulder. “Steve gets it.”

            “Bucky,” Steve says, managing to squirm out of Gene’s grasp. His hair’s a hopeless nest. “Don’t worry about it. He’s fine.” His voice is even and firm. When Gene stumbles, Steve puts a steadying hand on his shoulder and looks right in his eyes. Bucky swallows. He recognizes that reassuring look. He’s been on the receiving end of it more times than he can count, and seeing so much confidence in Steve’s eyes always takes his breath away. “I won’t hurt him, Gene. I promise.”

            Gene blinks rapidly. “He keeps sayin’ you’re gonna get yourself killed.”

            Bucky quickly looks up at the mirrored ball, studying the way light glints off of it. He can still feel Steve staring at him, but at least he doesn’t have to see the accusing look. “I won’t,” Steve says, a little irritation creeping into his voice. “And you won’t either, right?”

            “Imma—I’m’na try not to.”

            “Well, good. Then we’re fine. You having a good time, Gene?”

            “Yeah, yeah! Everybody’s here, you know. It’s great. Oh, hey, that’s Jordan!”

            “Why don’t you go say hi?” Steve’s amused when he suggests it. Bucky looks back at him quickly to catch the smile that he knows will be on his face. Sure enough, the corners of Steve’s mouth quirk up as Gene stumbles away to be swallowed up by the crowd. Steve takes a deep breath and lets out all the air through his nose before he looks at Bucky. The smile’s still in his eyes. “Well, that wasn’t so bad.”

            Bucky shakes his head. “I didn’t think he’d do that.”

            “I told you, Buck, he was fine. He’s worried about you. I appreciate that.” Steve’s smile slides off his face. People are moving around them, drunk guys yelling to each other over their heads, but Bucky feels like Steve with his tight jaw and worried eyes is the only one in the room. He’s about to say something when Steve sighs. “D’you want to dance?”

            Bucky’s so surprised by the offer that he almost says yes. God, how great would it be to dance with Steve in front of God and everybody? But he’s not going to risk it, especially not when there’s that much hesitance in Steve’s voice. “Nah. We’ve got better things to do with our time.”

            Steve’s eyes narrow. “Like what?”

            Bucky smirks. “You remember how to lock up one of these elevators?”

…

            “We’re gonna get caught,” Steve pants. Bucky hums and presses him against the wall of the elevator, running his tongue along the shell of his ear. “I’m serious, Buck, I can’t keep this locked for long, management will panic and call the fire department and—” Steve’s breath hitches as Bucky runs his tongue over the soft spot behind his ear. A second later, he’s moaning, head tilted back as Bucky sucks a hickey on his jaw. The sound builds the heat in Bucky’s stomach. His heart’s pounding.

            “Better go fast, then,” he murmurs, breathing directly into Steve’s ear. Steve whines, squirming against where Bucky’s got him pinned to the wall. “Not like you were doing to me this morning. Jesus, Rogers, I thought you were gonna kill me with that mouth of yours.”

            “Good. I like it when you let me—hell.” Steve grabs a handful of Bucky’s shirt when Bucky kisses his pulse. He swears loudly when Bucky drops to his knees. “Are you joking, Barnes? If they get this fucking elevator moving, I swear _oh fuck please._ ”

            Bucky smirks up at him from where he’s kissing along his fly. “Then you’d better come fast, punk.”

            “Oh Jesus God you know I will.” Steve’s chest is heaving. Bucky’s a little worried for him, but he trusts Steve to tell him if this is too much for his lungs. It hasn’t been yet. He untucks Steve’s shirt and kisses the pale skin of his stomach. Steve’s fingers wind their way into Bucky’s hair and tug. “Come on.”

            “Impatient little shit.” Bucky runs his tongue along Steve’s stomach. Steve’s muscles contract beneath his mouth. “You gonna keep pulling my hair like that?”

            “You gonna stop me?” Steve says breathlessly. Bucky shakes his head. Steve grins. He’s pink all over. “Didn’t think so. Oh hell, Buck, oh please—” Bucky’s pulling down his pants, taking the time to kiss him through his boxers. Steve’s breaths come faster, every single one a whine or a curse. His thin fingers tug compulsively at Bucky’s hair. “Please, come on, you jerk, you asshole, just suck me. Stop teasing. God. What do you want from me?”

            Bucky wets his lips. What he’s thinking about demanding is so wrong, but his heart feels like it’s cracking in two. Everything’s too much all of a sudden. “Tell me you love me,” he says, looking up at Steve through his lashes. He’s proud of the way his voice is still husky.

            Steve’s eyes widen. “Course I love you, you big lug. I love you, I love you, oh Jesus fucking Christ.” Steve pulls at Bucky’s hair so hard there’s lightning in Bucky’s scalp when he goes down on him. The pain feels amazing just like it always does, Bucky’s nerves singing with it. He can’t help the way he rocks his hips while he’s sucking on Steve. Steve’s just too much, too goddamn beautiful with his chest heaving and his hands clenching in Bucky’s hair.

            It doesn’t take Steve long at all to come, shaking and swearing. Bucky has to grab his hips to hold him up. Steve’s knees are shaking too hard to support him. Bucky buttons him back into his pants and then stays there, kneeling at his feet with his head resting against his hip. Steve cards his fingers through his hair, gentle now, almost apologetic. When Bucky doesn’t move for a good minute, Steve puts two fingers under his chin and tilts his head up. “What’s going on?"

            Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t think he can put the too-tight feeling in his chest into words. He loves going down on Steve. This has nothing to do with that and everything to do with Gene and the draft and Bucky’s number just waiting to be called. “I love you,” he says, voice rough.

            Steve’s eyes flicker with something Bucky can’t quite recognize. “Come here,” he says, tugging Bucky to his feet. He unlocks the elevator and presses the button that leads to the roof. “Let’s go see the fireworks.”

…

            A few stars are showing through the smog. The fireworks’ll start any minute. Surprisingly, not everyone and their mother is on the roof. There are a couple of fairies on one end whispering to each other and a few regular couples studiously ignoring them, but aside from that, the roof is clear. Steve sits in the middle and pats the space beside him. As soon as Bucky sits, Steve leans against him. Bucky’s so surprised at the gesture that he doesn’t put his arms around Steve until Steve takes them and wraps them around himself. Once he does that, though, Bucky drags him close, nearly hauling him onto his lap.

            “You scared?” Steve asks.

            Bucky snorts. “What, of the fireworks? I’m not three anymore.” Steve watches him steadily. Bucky can’t stand the worry in his gaze. He looks away, out over the gleaming orange city lights. “I’m fine,” he says. His throat’s tight.

            “You know how I feel about you, right?”

            Bucky shrugs. “Sure I do.”

            “I mean it,” Steve says insistently. “You know how I feel about you. You know I—” He lowers his voice. “You know I love you. You don’t ever have to ask that question. I’ve always loved you, Bucky Barnes. ‘Til the end of the line. That’s our deal. Right?” Bucky can’t speak. All he can do is nod. His eyes prickle uncomfortably. Steve sighs and leans more weight on him. “What are you worried about?”

            Losing Gene, Bucky thinks. Losing you. He shrugs. “Screwed up your birthday plans.”

            “Bullshit,” Steve says, voice sharp. “All I wanted for my birthday was to spend time with you, and that’s what—”

            The bang of the first firework makes Bucky just about jump out of his skin. Steve grabs both of his hands and squeezes tightly for a good second. They take deep breaths together, Bucky trying to convince himself not to shake as more Roman Candles explode. Slowly, Steve’s grip on his hands relaxes. Bucky grits his teeth and counts back from three…two….

            Steve bursts out laughing.

            “All right, punk, okay, you can laugh,” Bucky grouses. Steve chokes a little, then laughs harder. Bucky shoves him away, unbalancing him. Steve crawls right back to him. Ashes flutter down on them as the fireworks explode, red, white, and blue. Whatever Steve had to say is gone now, swallowed by his amusement at Bucky’s expense. Well, that’s fine. Bucky doesn’t want to think about what awful things come next. He drags Steve onto his lap and squeezes him tight. “Happy birthday, you little shit. I’m glad you’re around.”


End file.
